But this class? it’s going to be different. After a little bullshit we got down to business. She wanted us to get to know each other. It’s a class of 12 girls and two guys. I’m 99% sure they’re only taking this class to get laid. So I end up in the smallest group, without any guys. I assume we’re doomed.

“When I say go I want you to write down as many words as you can that mean the word “penis”… Ready? GO!”

We jumped into action and whupped the other groups asses, coming up with 22 words in 30 seconds. As we shouted out words and phrases like “silky bratwurst” (10 Things I Hate About You, anyone?) “schlong” “bologna pony” (WTF. Who calls it that?) and contempated questions like “is Krull the warrior king spelt with a C or a K?” I knew my intial fear had been aleviated.

This class is going to be AWESOME! and clearly I don’t need no stinkin man.

No one does crazy like she does. Seriously.

Fight Club.

There’s the classic “I haven’t been fucked like that since grade school”

And “A condom is the glass slipper for our generation. You slip one on when you meet a stranger. You dance all night, and then you throw it away. The condom, I mean, not the stranger.”

As the narrator describes her “Marla… the little scratch on the roof of your mouth that would heal if only you could stop tonguing it, but you can’t.”

Good lord. I love that movie. Dishwashing gloves have never looked sexier than when probing Brad Pitt’s belly-button.

The reason for this post is my current viewing of Harry Potter. Shut up. It was either that or Cadillac Records. H B-C plays Bellatrix, a deliciously creepy, totally twisted gal. Sometimes I think it would be fun to be so deliciously devilish like her characters. It might be nice to be utterly fucked up. But then my rational side sets in and I reel myself back. But sometimes? I wish I could let go like that. Crazy lady.

I want to be able to write an eloquent post about the truth in the Frightened Rabbit song “Keep yourself warm”. Because it really DOES take more than fucking someone to keep yourself warm, as my scared bunny friends say.

I want to be able to bitch about Sarah Palin and completely disagree with the idea of purity rings without worrying that certain people will look at me differently.

I want to write about my fear of committment and how my experience on J-date was the worst idea EVER.  Cute-Ella’s post reminded me of my relationship/one-night-stand with the J-douche.

Also, I have OCD, and OCD sucks balls.

Basically I want to be me. and my old blog was no longer affording me that liberty.

So what do I have?

A CAR! (and a dog. and a little sister. but that comes later)

Shut up mom. I can see you rolling your eyes.

Here’s how it all went down…

I turned 16, straightened my hair, passed my Permit Test (with one question wrong because I can’t discern my Right from Left. whoops) took a smoking hot picture, and procced to freak the fuck out because Um HI! I have a permit and holy crap cars go fast and Im gunna dieeeeeee. and I can’t tell my left from my right and did I mention I have serious anxiety about yellow lights?

I took a deep breath. and proceeded to avoid driving for a year, until my 17th Birthday. My mom sewed me this adorable summer bag (pictures to come) and said “Oh look. I made a zippered pocket. It’s the first time I’ve made a zippered pocked. Isn’t that zippered pocket cool” (hello. dead horse? put down the stick)
So I looked in the pocket and there was a silver heart keychain with KEYS attached. I think I said something alone the lines of “YOU ARE KIDDING ME” followed by “Where is Ashton Kutcher. I am totally getting punked” Except I wasn’t, I was just the proud new owner of a super old white volvo wagon. I promptly named him Vincent.
He’s a piece of crap. But he’s MY piece of crap.